


A Caged Bird Does Not Sing

by Alter



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Graphic Descriptions of Torture, Other, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter/pseuds/Alter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes while faced with a troubling situation that he's not as alone as he may think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Caged Bird Does Not Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShinySherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/gifts).



> This fic was written for ShinySherlock via the SummerlockExchange2014, and is terribly, terribly late. My sincerest apologies, darling. Humongous thanks to my awesome beta The_Warden, without whom this fic would still be wallowing about unfinished and with about twenty more uses of the word "gently."

<>

The whip hisses through the air, crackling as it bites into flesh. Sherlock stumbles forward from the force of it, breathing hard through the searing sensation blooming on his back. The heavy chains tethering him to wall are the only thing holding him upright. Sherlock hangs limply, unable to stand of his own volition, the metal cuffs cut harshly into the already aching, red skin around his wrists.

The whip snaps again, and Sherlock grits his teeth as the shock of it takes his breath away, leaving him gasping in pain. He can feel blood seep from one of the gashes and slide in a long, hot, line down his back, stinging as it passes over yesterday’s beating.

Sherlock loses count of how many times the whip slices, stinging hot into his body. His entire existence has shrunk down to the burning agony of every pain receptor crying out at once. He barely notices when the beatings stop, half drowning in the dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision. The heavy, metal cuffs around his wrists are unlocked, and he falls, shaking on all fours onto the grimy floor.

Hands lift him roughly, half dragging him back to the tiny cell. They shove him in, and he stumbles, receiving a heavily booted foot to the stomach for it. The cell door slams shut, the heavy key turning in the lock.

Sherlock curls into himself, his breathing shallow, a distant part of his mind informs him that he’s gone into shock.

The floor of the cell is frigid against the searing heat radiating from Sherlock’s aching back. He trembles as he struggles to breathe through the icy sting of the cold air in his lungs, mixing with the painful, agonising sensation of his skin melting, peeling, and blistering from the criss-cross lacerations that cover his back and shoulders.

He reaches out a hand, fumbling in near darkness for the shirt he’d left behind earlier. He finds nothing on the desolate floor and he vaguely wonders if they took it in fear of him attempting suicide with it. An altogether not horrible sounding idea at the moment, but Sherlock was hoping to huddle under it in a vain attempt at not freezing to death in the night.

Sherlock is woken much later by a clattering sound. He dimly recognizes it as the small flap, barely big enough to shove a cat through, being unlocked and lifted. He hears the plastic thud of a water bottle and the small clinking scrape of a bowl being shoved through the opening before the door is shut and locked again.

Sherlock swallows thickly as he reaches out a shaking hand and picks up the bottle of water. He fumbles with the cap, spilling a few precious drops. He reminds himself to take sips to avoid repeating the mistake of making himself sick from drinking too fast. The water is warm, and he realizes he must have bitten the inside of his cheek earlier, but he pays no attention to the iron taste in his mouth because the water is the most refreshing thing has ingested in what feels like days.

After a bit, he reaches for the bowl, tugging it closer. He sniffs warily, dipping a finger gingerly into the bowl. In the darkness he thinks he can make out the shape of a few beans sitting in a thin liquid. Sherlock licks his finger cautiously, wrinkling his nose at the too salty taste. He coughs, wincing as the movement irritates his back, causing it to twitch and spasm uncontrollably.

They don’t come back that day, or at least Sherlock thinks it is a day. It is difficult to say exactly how long he has been kept there for, the cell is dark, windowless and cold enough that he is certain it is underground. He works his way slowly through the gruel, hoping his stomach won’t rebel against it. At the bottom of the bowl are a handful of limp beans, and he picks them up one at a time with shaking fingers, chewing them slowly.

Sherlock sleeps in fitful bursts. The second his body manages to relax enough to drift off, he moves just enough so that an intense white-hot pain shoots through him, causing him to wake up gasping and shaking pitifully.

<>

“How _dare_ you?” Loki hisses, slamming the side of his fist into the glass wall of his prison. He steadfastly ignores the pointed glares of the red and gold armour suits flanking the door give him. “You swore to me that he would never be involved in this. You _swore_. A rare day indeed when the Liesmith’s word is worth more than that of the Golden Prince of Asgard!”

“Loki, please!” Thor pleads, ignoring the jibe. “He is already here, will you not speak with him?”

“You would have him look upon me like this?” Loki sneers incredulously, turning on his heel and stalking the length of the glass wall. “Prowling back and forth, trapped like a wild animal, only fit to be seen locked behind a prison of glass?”

“You _know_ the reason for that--”

“Oh _yes_ , look at mad Loki, best to lock him away and only bring him out at parties as the freak show entertainment!”

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor rumbles warningly.

Loki spins around, his expression fierce, a bitter retort on the tip of his tongue, only to stop dead at the sight of the man standing beside Thor. Loki closes his eyes, lowering his head in resignation.

Sherlock steps closer to the glass, clasping his hands behind his back. “Hello, Mother.”

<>

It _hurts_. Sherlock can’t _think_ because of the pain. As they drag him back to his cell the only semi coherent thought he can form is _please, someone help me._

Sherlock is thrown into the cell, he cries out as his severely lacerated back hits the wall. He goes limp as his muscles give out, sliding to floor in a crumpled heap, unconsciousness taking him over.

<>

 Loki grits his teeth, addressing the floor, “Am I to be allowed to speak to my son with at least an illusion of privacy, or will this be a fully supervised visit?”

Thor inclines his head, turning immediately and striding up the stairs, the trap door sliding shut behind him.

“And what sort of time do you call this?” Loki asks evenly, slowly looking up at his youngest child, his tone dripping with thinly veiled sarcasm. He mirrors Sherlock’s stance, his hands clenched into fists behind his back.

“Oh, you know how it goes,” Sherlock replies carelessly. “One minute you’re deep undercover taking down an international criminal organisation, the next you’re being sent to investigate your own parent’s odd behaviour. I know I chose to make a career of being a Consulting Detective, but this really _is_ a bit much.”

<>

Something cold and wet pressing against Sherlock’s neck causes him to wake with a shiver. He pries his eyes open to the sight of a great, shaggy, grey wolf nosing against his shoulder, blocking most of the light from the door, so big that only half his body fits in the tiny cell.

“Narfi,” Sherlock says weakly, voice nearly gone from screaming but tinged in disbelief. He reaches out a faltering hand, burying his fingers in the shaggy fur of Narfi’s neck. Narfi snuffles lightly, nuzzling and gently licking Sherlock’s cheek with his warm, rough tongue. Sherlock uses his grip in Narfi’s fur to lever himself into a sitting position. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against Narfi’s. “You came for me,” he breaths in relief, reaching up with his other hand and hugging the great, shaggy head.

Narfi whines and nudges his muzzle under Sherlock’s arm, urging him up. He helps Sherlock to stand then crouches quickly, letting Sherlock drape himself over his broad shoulders. Narfi backs slowly out of the cell, mindful of Sherlock’s small noises of pain as he eases down the hallway with a careful, even gait.

They turn the corner, to see another wolf, larger than his brother, bounding up to them. Yellow light emanating from the old bulbs overhead showed that his brown fur is mottled with grey and that his muzzle is shiny with blood. He grins widely, licking his chops in satisfaction. He makes a noise of distress at the sight of Sherlock, shuffling closer to rub his cheek against Sherlock’s matted curls in a gesture of comfort.

“ _Vali_ ,” Sherlock sighs, reaching up and tugging gently on a silky ear. “My hero.” He coughs, clutching Narfi’s shoulders tightly and groaning at the fresh wave of pain it brings. Vali and Narfi exchange a look and move faster. The last thing he sees is a great flash of white before he lets the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision take him under.

<>

“There is nothing to investigate, Loki says silkily. He lowers his voice to an undertone, “I simply ask that you trust me when I say there is more here than first appears.”

Sherlock frowns. He opens his mouth then closes it with a click of his teeth. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a slow breath. “Very well, but I refuse to be forced to converse while not even in the same room. Allow me entrance at once.”

“I am not certain that is advisable, Mr. Holmes,” Jarvis says politely.

Loki watches Sherlock with a slight frown, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“That is not a no.” Sherlock points out, crosses his arms stubbornly.

Loki raises an eyebrow, but he lifts his hands and steps back from the door. Two of the red and gold suits of armour step forward warningly, their eye sockets glowing a dangerous shade of electric blue.

“The door is unarmed, you may step through, Mr. Holmes,” Jarvis manages to sound disapproving as the door slides open.

“How remarkably obliging.” Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes. Stepping inside, he slips his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as the door closes behind him. He stares wordlessly at Loki, peripherally watching the armour step back into their alcoves, and their eyes dim into a dormant state.

Loki lowers his hands, crossing his arms and affecting a careless pose. “You look like a transient,” he comments, tilting his head.

“I was _undercover_ ,” Sherlock repeats flippantly, utterly unconcerned by his slovenly appearance. “Though _you’re_ hardly one to talk.”

Loki tsks. “The first time I see you in nearly five years and this is how you speak to me? Does family mean so little to you?”

“More than it means to _you_ apparently,” Sherlock retorts. He tilts his head, “How _is_ Sleipnir these days, hmm? Still relegated to schlepping the All-father around when he deigns to leave Hlidskjalf?” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches up in victory as Loki’s fingers curl into a fist.

<>

The next time Sherlock wakes, he is blissfully, _deliciously_ warm, pressed up against the soft fur of Narfi’s belly. He shifts tentatively, trying to gauge how far he could move before the excruciating pain of his back begins, propping himself up on an elbow and looking down at the crisp, white bandages that wrap around his shoulders, chest and torso. A bottle of water sits beside him, eagerly he picks it up, twists off the cap and drinks from it greedily.

Great, white paws pad into his field of vision, before another wolf flops down onto the ground, resting his head mere inches away from Sherlock’s knees. The wolf blinks languidly at Sherlock. “You seem to be feeling better, brother.”

“Thanks to your timely intervention, Fenrir,” Sherlock replies as he pulls himself into a proper sitting position in order to lean back against Narfi’s soft underbelly.

Fenrir moves his broad shoulders in a manner that could be interpreted as a shrug. He stretches in order to gently nudge Sherlock’s bare foot with his nose. “Thank the All Mother, not us. She heard your plea and sent us to your aid. We have done only what is right.”

Sherlock frowns. “I rather thought I feel better than I ought. How long was I out for?”

“Three Midgardian days,”  Fenrir says, looking concerned. “The All Mother put you into a healing trance. You will need food. Vali hunts. We will feast upon deer flesh when he returns.” Fenrir grins, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth or salivating at the thought of devouring fresh meat soon. “You may cook your portion first if you wish.”

“Is the All Mother still here?” Sherlock asks, finishing the rest of the water. Mindful of where Fenrir’s drool trail was beginning to form a small puddle on the ground.

“Not at present. She cannot stay long, or her presence in Asgard will be missed. She will return later to ascertain details about your recovery.” He casts an unforgiving side glance at the bruised bottoms of Sherlock’s feet. “The cruelty of humans towards their own still manages to surprise me.”

“Now brother,” Sherlock drawls. “We both know that’s not _quite_ true, is it?”

“Indeed, I forget you are only half human.” Fenrir growls lowly, “No full human could have lived through what they did to you.”

“Do calm down,” Sherlock says, tilting his head back against Narfi and closing his eyes. “You have had your revenge on my behalf in a most lucrative fashion.”

<>

“Your brother is quite well, thank you for asking.” Loki spreads his hands in a calming gesture. “I do not think you went to the trouble of coming so far to see me to merely spend our time together arguing.”

“Ah, but we do it so very well,” Sherlock murmurs, giving a tiny shrug. “Fine. What manner of discourse would you prefer?”

Loki tilts his head, “You’ve grown up since last I saw you, what have you been doing that has you in such a state? You look as though you’ve been ill.”

“No,” Sherlock falters slightly. “Not _ill_ exactly...” Sherlock tilts his head back and forth. “My undercover mission did not... turn out quite as expected.”

Loki’s gaze darkens, his voice deadly. “How so?”

<>

Frigga's return is heralded by the golden light that emanates from herself. Her entire body glows with affectionate grace as she steps through the cave entrance. Before she can get too far inside, the All Mother is nearly bowled over by Vali and Narfi’s enthusiastic welcome. They bump her with their shoulders, nuzzling their great heads against her legs and waist. She beams, murmuring greetings as she ruffles the fur between their ears.

“All Mother,” Sherlock breathes, his fingers tightly grip the long fur at Fenrir’s shoulder as he pulls himself to his feet and bows his head.

“There is no need to stand on ceremony at my account,” Frigga says lightly, stepping closer to him. “Your color is much improved, how are you feeling?”

“Tired, experiencing residual muscle spasms, general fatigue, and some lingering pain, but infinitely better than I was.” Sherlock worries his lip, his grip tightening in Fenrir’s fur.

“Please sit,” Frigga says, reaching out a hand. “You are tired, as you should be, your body has undergone a great deal of trauma.”

<>

There is a loud crack, similar to a gunshot. Sherlock crouches to the floor, instinctually looking around for cover.

“Please do not be alarmed,” Jarvis intones. “Sir, has begun renovating the upper level.”

“Sherlock?” Loki asks gently, in front of Sherlock in an instant. “ _Elskan_ ,” he croons, reaching out a hand towards Sherlock’s cheek. He pauses uncertainly, his hand dropping a little, a ripple of pain crossing his face before he cradles the line of Sherlock’s jaw. “Oh my dearest heart, who has hurt you so?”

Sherlock blinks, then he closes his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into the gentle touch. “That... is a very long story.”

“There is time enough for this,” Loki insists, his gaze filled with dark intent.

<>

“Well?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

“You are incredibly lucky,” Frigga informs him. “I suggest you take it easy for a few weeks, and eat more steady meals, you will be well soon.”

Sherlock buttons up his shirt as he licks his lips. “I... when I was in there, I asked for help...”

Frigga reaches out and gently tilts Sherlock’s chin up. “I heard you.”

“Yes, and I--” Sherlock swallows. “I wish to thank you.”

Frigga smiles and gently cups his face with her hands. “What sort of grandmother would I be if I did not watch over my favorite grandchildren?” She runs her hands down to clasp his shoulders lightly before letting her hands fall to her sides.

Fenrir snorts, huffing a noise reminiscent of a laugh.

Frigga levels a cool gaze at Fenrir, though her eyes sparkle. “After all, even if Thor never gives me grandchildren, Loki has more than made up for it in abundance.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says dryly. “Mother has been rather... prolific over the centuries.”

Fenrir nods, “Yes, Father has, _little_ brother.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Sherlock corrects him automatically.

“For you and Sleipnir, perhaps,” Fenrir nods serenely. “Let us not quibble over trifles, brother.”

Frigga clears her throat pointedly.

“Forgive me, All Mother,” Fenrir says, ducking his head. “We did not mean to offend.”

Sherlock nods in agreement, “Indeed, my apologies.”

Frigga waves away their apologies, “After all this time, I have become quite immune to the bickering of siblings.” Her expression turns solemn, “I must admit attending to your health was not the only reason for my visit this evening. I have a request to make of you, grandson.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, blinking in surprise.

“I fear that Loki’s time in the void has caused a sort of madness to come over him. He needs you,” Frigga murmurs, laying her hand against Sherlock’s cheek. “If he will not listen to his mother, perhaps he will listen to his son.”

<>

Loki presses his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back and guides him over to the mattress that is shoved up against the wall. “Sit down.”

Sherlock collapses in exhaustion, long limbs folding under himself as he sinks to the firm mattress. “I don’t know where to start,” he says plaintively, looking up at Loki.

Loki sits on the matress, sliding back until he can lean against the wall. “Come here, dear heart.” He reaches over and gently tugs Sherlock down by the shoulder. “I rather think the beginning should be the best place to start.”

Sherlock allows himself to be tugged into a suitable position, curling up on his side, resting his head on Loki’s thigh. He heaves a bone deep sigh as Loki slides his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and begins detangling the mess of fairy knots masquerading as Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock tells his story. Slowly, it comes in bits and pieces so that he has to stop and make sure he has things in the right order sometimes. He talks about becoming a full-fledged Consulting Detective, carving out a place for himself in the world, the bright rush it brings when he almost always gets it right, the crushing dullness of the ones he didn’t figure out in time. He talks about Mycroft and his on-again, off-again dieting. He talks about meeting John, the best thing he’s ever had next to The Work, and oh, how John doesn’t even know that Sherlock is _alive_ right now. All because of Moriarty, because he’d played The Game and gambled too much, and he had to take the fall to protect John. Because John has protected Sherlock hasn’t he, like the night with the cabby, the night of the horrible incident at that pool, and Baskerville, and oh wasn’t John just glorious then, and by the way, John is a soldier _and_ a doctor, and so terribly clever, though admittedly, not nearly as clever as Sherlock, but then who _is_ really? Well, Mycroft can be so _terribly_ clever sometimes, though he really _doesn’t_ count. But now Sherlock is on the run, has been for nearly 18 months, and at first it had been easy because he was protecting John, and while he still is, there is still so much to do, and he feels so _alone_.

Loki’s fingers in Sherlock’s hair pause for a moment, and his eyebrows knit together in concern over this last admission but says nothing. He simply resumes attending to Sherlock’s tangled curls.

Finally, Sherlock says, his voice trembling slightly as he teeters on the brink of exhaustion and despair that he’s hit a dead end. Moriarty’s network is still very intact, but it’s either out of his reach or so thickly shrouded by smoke clouds and firewalls it might as well be nonexistent.

“Oh, my dearest idiot,” Loki sighs affectionately. “Whatever foolish notion made you think that you need do all of this on your own?”

Sherlock is silent.

“Exactly,” Loki murmurs. “There are so many you can call on, why ever did you think you could not, my _Elskan_.” He is quiet for a moment, gently smoothing Sherlock’s curls. “Why did you not call upon _me_?”

“When I had hit the absolute depth of my despair, I cried out for help. The All Mother heard my plea and sent Fenrir, Vali, and Narfi to my aid. I would not be here now if not for her intervention,” Sherlock says quietly.

“M--mother? Really?” Loki stammers in disbelief.

Sherlock tilts his head to look up at Loki, raising an eyebrow. “She is not as disapproving as you believe. In fact I do believe she is altogether rather fond of us.”

“Well... you could still have called upon me, do you not remember what I taught you about the power of Names?”

“I was hardly thinking clearly at the time,” Sherlock retorts.

“At any rate, it is my pleasure to assist you, I think it is high time you returned to that doctor of yours.”

“He’s not mine,” Sherlock mutters, ducking his head.

Loki snorts. “And who’s fault is that?”

“And how are we planning to leave, hmm? You’ve made a lot of people quite upset, you know.” Sherlock says, pointedly changing the subject.

“Oh, your uncle will be most willing to make a few stops on the way back to Asgard when I tell him,” Loki says assuredly, a smirk dancing on his face.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not exactly _free_ at the moment,” Sherlock says somewhat skeptically.

Loki raises an eyebrow. “My son, you of all people should know that there are few prisons that can keep me in if I do not wish it.” He casts a pointed glance to their surroundings. “Certainly not one of improvised, human make.”

“So you admit that there is a method behind your recent descent into madness?” Sherlock asks.

Loki smirks. “Always, darling.”

<>


End file.
